ARMS AND THE WOMAN

Te Awamutu Courier, Volume 63, Issue 4462, 11 August 1941, Page 6

ARMS AND THE WOMAN

A VISIT TO A MUNITIONS FACTORY. “THE GIRL WHO BEATS THE MACHINE.” Four hours with the girls on the machines. I have seen for myself what exactly it means to “go into munitions,” writes Ann Temple in the Overseas Daily Mail. I arrive at the Ministry of Supply factory in the lunch hour. Would I like to see the canteen Ensa is entertaining the workers? I would indeed. An upper room of astonishing length, orderly rows of small tables set end to end, thousands of green-overalled girls (fine variety of curls and “sets,” surprising number of redheads), cigarette smoke. But many empty places, many bored expressions, no laughter. The comedian behind the mike on the distant platform working hard on a “little recitation.” Back in the staff room they explain. Ensa is not giving the workers what they like. The room is packed from end to end when the workers give their own concerts, appreciation is 100 per cent. But then, they have cathedral choristers among the workers, opera singers, musicians and artists of rank, their own orchestra and dance band. The factory is in the North country, and they know what they want—the best. TINY MACHINES. The lunch is excellent, the same as the workers. (I didn’t know I liked rice puddings until I tasted theirs). Now the superintendent is taking me round the shops. The woman organiser is with us, too. The girls like her. I can see by the way they greet her. I had expected massive machines, gigantic belts and lathes, clangour and noise, men and women with expressionless faces going through the monotonous repetitive action jobs of the Machine Age. But here the machines are diminutive and the girls out-number the men four to one. Girls standing on little platforms (concrete is hard on the feet) working their own machines. With one hand they give a brisk little whirl to a handle no bigger than that of a sewing-machine, with the other they pick out delicately a gadget. They set it down ready to be passed on to its next process and begin again. / Here is a girl standing at a small table. She dips a paint brush into a pot of red paint, flicks a neat spot of it on to the rim of a disc the safety spot—and sets it down. One, two, three. . . . Gracious! Fifty of them in no time. Now and again she pauses, walks away and has a chat with a pal. This is piece-work. The best piece-workers work well within their physical capacity. The freedom to stop, move along as they please, and exchange talk offsets monotony—in the long run increases production. THEY LOVE MUSIC. From shop to I follow the product through its intricate processing. I see the plain disc developing into a complicated mechanism drilled with different sized holes, fitted with innumerable tiny screws and “clock” wheels of incredible delicacy. At some of the larger machines (dressing-table size) the girls sit on cushioned seats that slide along the bench. They give a neat percussive bang to this button, a whirl of that small handle, a push here, a slide there, and begin again. It looks easy, but their certainty of touch, their economy of movement leaves me gasping. Girls standing at their machines, girls sitting at their machines, their own bosses. Some are spinning a “tram-driver’s” wheel, some adjusting lathes with wide circling movements of the arms, others bending rhythmically to right or left, others, again, still, with hands alone moving—delicate fingers coming down in strong, smart slaps. The drums take up the rhythm. A saxophone blares in, the band enter in full strength through the loud

speakers overhead. The shops are filled from floor to ceiling with Rhythm. Girls, it’s “Music While You Work”! They love this. They sing the choruses, they laugh, and feet that are free tap the rhythm. We go on. I talk to the girls. The Midget, once a circus turn, has a high stool specially made for her. She is a great favourite. I was intrigued by the team workers. Five of them. Four in green one in khaki—Army Inspection girl*. The girl at the end takes her arm back. With a swift hard flick she sets the spinner in motion. All eyes are intent on the clock, faces upwards on the table. Checking revolutions, they explain. But I couldn’t make head or tail of it. Looks like a croupier with a roulette board. The same intentness. The team must always be composed of friends. Put in a girl not compatible with the others and there’s trouble. TOO FAST TO SEE. Here’s the star turn of the factory. Petite, blonde, blue-eyed. She sits at a table doing “something” to tiny wheels with a tweezer. So intricate, so incredibly swift, I can’t even follow the movement. But neither can the superintendent. He tells me that he and other engineers of long experience often watch her, fascinated by her phenomenal dexterity. They call her “the girl who beats the machine.” On these intricate little gadgets are working girls who have been textile designers, musicians, artists. At first they were given one gadget only on which to concentrate. Too monotonous. They were given three different parts. Interest raised by the widened scope, the sense of relationship between the parts, lessened the monotony. Their output increased 40 per cent. Several young women in white overalls. Average age 23. Assistant forewoman earning up to £6 a week. On the whole the workers loook fit. They have bright, alert faces. They tell me they like the work. Find it monotonous? Some say “Yes.” Bad as sewing? Chorus of “Oh no’s.” Do they get tired? “Well, yes, sometimes. Towards the end of the day.” But they are all always ready for a dance in the evening. Different sections of the factory’get up dances, for some work all day, some all night. Like the nightwork shift? Many prefer it. LOCAL TALENT. All these girls have beautiful hands. Slim, strong fingers, manicured, even some lacquered nails; very graceful hands, delicately capable. Of course, this is a special factory. No work for the fieavy, Clumsy handed here. The girls are trained in the factory, most of them recruited from the neighbourhood. The superintendent thinks they probably inherit the craftsman hands of the loom workers.